


they will return

by floweringcacti



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Agender Chara, Angst, Dissociation, Narrator Chara, Nonbinary Frisk, POV Second Person, Pacifist Route, Selectively Mute Frisk, Sharing a Body, Soft Chara, frisk uses ASL, intended platonic, rated for chara's language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 11:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5742673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweringcacti/pseuds/floweringcacti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A human who worked to grant mercy, regardless of first impulses—a human who, maybe, didn’t let themself be so horribly destructive and murderous—a human who didn’t want to inflict pain—that was something Chara had never believed existed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they will return

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written fanfiction since i was thirteen oh my g od... lord have mercy on my soul...
> 
> alternate title: "giant freaking pile of all my favorite undertale soft chara fanfic clichés and headcanons"
> 
> (written for adrien on vent, who made me an amazing chara playlist and asked for this like a week ago im so sorry)

You think they might be trying to kill you.

(Or save you.

You’re not always entirely certain which one.)

 

* * *

 

They are harsh and gentle with you all at once.

Toriel leaves you, and you sink wearily against the pillar she had hidden behind, staring at your hands. She’d healed you—and—and then she’d left you, but she’d healed you, she’d shown that she _cared_ , but she barely even _knew_ you, and—you’re so confused. She seemed so nice, and loving, but she had abandoned you, and you aren’t sure what to do except sit down and wait for her return. That is, _if_ she returns.

They interrupt your train of thought, annoyance flickering yellows and oranges through your mind. “ _We’re not going to just sit here, are we? We have to move on, we have to keep going—come on, don’t you want to explore, don’t you want to see the rest of this place? There might be food laying around here somewhere, I know you’re hungry._ I’m _hungry, at least, and you_ have _to take care of this body now because_ I’m _stuck in it_ with _you. Ha!_ ”

You are far too tired for some excursion like that, you think, shaking your head. You could curl up on the floor and sleep, right now, and stop worrying so much about whether or not Toriel would come back, stop worrying if she really wanted you here, stop the sinking feeling of abandonment in your stomach. Just—just stop, for a little bit.

“ _I—no, don’t think that, don’t be stupid,_ ” they snap. “ _Toriel would never just—just abandon a child like that, she’d never—she’d never!_ ”

You hug your knees to your chest, rocking back and forth. The Ruins are colder than you’d expect. You wish you’d brought a sweater.

" _Oh, I can’t believe this! Fine, you big baby. Do you want to call her? She gave us a cell phone, remember?_ ”

You whip your head back and forth, trying to suppress the anxiety that rises in your chest at the thought of being on the phone, of being expected to _talk_ , of all things, and—

They snatch control of your hands, and when your stomach clenches and throat constricts they take over the rest of you, too. It’s a little more difficult to panic when you feel so—so—so disembodied, but you’ve never really had difficulty being upset, regardless of the circumstances, and you _know_ that they’re feeling your anxiety now. You allow yourself a bit of smug satisfaction when you see them squirm in discomfort—it’s a little petty, but you don’t really feel guilty at all.

(More than anything, you depersonalized. It’s as if you’re watching your body from the outside in and the inside out all at once, and you suspect that it would give you a headache if you could _actually feel your head_.)

They clear their— _your_ —throat and sit up properly. Something about their (your) shoulders, the stiffness of their (your) spine makes you think that they’re accustomed to being taller—and they’re more confident in the way they pick up your phone, and you don’t think that your hands tremble at all under their control, and—you might be a little bitter, just maybe, just because they seem so comfortable in a body that isn’t even _theirs_ —it’s _yours,_ but it’s not like you belong in it any more than they do, right?

“Don’t be a baby,” they say aloud, and if you still had a body, you’d flinch at how rusty your voice sounds. “You’re almost as bad as—I mean, you’re such a wimp. I’ll handle the phone calls.”

They call Toriel.

You draw in closer, anxious, waiting to listen. Is she going to answer? Is she going to tell you to leave her alone? Is she—

“Hey, mom,” they say, and their words come out of your mouth so naturally that for a moment you forget that you’re not in control. But—

“ _Mom?”_ you ask incredulously, because you’ve only known Toriel for twenty minutes, and somehow they already consider her their mother? You—you’ve known Them, whoever They are, for about twenty-five minutes, and they never really struck you as the type to—

Wait. They—they, they’re not breathing? They’ve frozen. Their hands are definitely trembling, now, and it’s not _really_ hard for you to seize control of yourself again, but you still feel as if you’re forcing your way into a place that doesn’t belong to you. Toriel’s saying something, and she sounds nice enough, you suppose. You wish your stomach wasn’t so unsettled.

_Click!_

She’s hung up, now, and you’re just— _just—talk to me, okay? What happened? Why’d you freak ou—_

“ _I’m fine,_ ” they snap, and you bite your tongue and stare at the ground.

 _“Well, I’m sorry for asking,”_ you respond, just as bitterly, except you automatically feel bad about it, whereas they seem to have had no regrets as to cutting you off. You try again, more gentle: “ _I’m sorry, really—”_

“ _It’s fine,_ ” they say again, but it seems? Softer, somehow. You decide it’s the closest to an apology that you’re going to get at this point.

“ _What about you?”_ they ask, skirting around the subject. _“Why wouldn’t you—no, I—do you—why can’t you talk?_ ”

You bite your tongue, hard. “ _What’s your name?”_

“ _What does that have to—ugh, fine, it’s. It’s.”_ They pause. For a moment you think—maybe—you’re somewhere else, you’ve just fallen down, and someone’s holding your hand, and then: _“I’m. I’m—Chara, but seriously, why would you ask something_ stupid _like that?”_

 _“It’s not stupid to want to get to know someone, especially when they’re living in your head,”_ you defend yourself, but a part of you recoils at their words. You continue anyway, trying not to flinch in advance. “ _How do you spell it?”_

They’re quiet, and you think you might feel—shame, purple streaks shooting through your head for a moment. You’re afraid they won’t respond, or that they’re going to tell you to shut up again, and then: _“C–H–A–R–A.”_

You fingerspell along with them, careful to get the signs right, and then you do it again—right in front of your eyes, so they can see—making sure their attention is focused on the task at hand (pun intended).

“ _Oh,_ ” Chara says, and you think they’re beginning to understand now, because they sound—almost—impressed? You don’t have time to linger on the thought, because they’ve stolen your right hand now, clumsily trying to mimic your movements. “ _No, shit, wait—no, I’ve got it—what was R, again? Okay, right, it’s—okay, I think I’ve got it. C—oh, shit, I fucked it up again, I’m horrible at this, I can’t even get my own_ name _right, I’m—I’m sorry, I—”_

“ _It’s okay_ ,” you say easily, and take your hand back. It’s a little easier this time—you feel less like you’re forcing yourself in and more like you’re letting Chara out. “ _I can teach you. Everyone has trouble with it. I still don’t know that much”—_ you brighten suddenly, thinking of something—“ _so_ _we can help each other!”_

“ _I… I… But, I’m so? Bad at it?_ ” they ask, and you think they might not understand that _you’re_ pretty bad at it too.

So you pick your stick back up off of the ground and stick your cell phone into your pocket and pat your own shoulder, a little awkwardly. “ _It’s okay, Chara. I’ll teach you, and you’ll get better.”_

“ _I don’t—um. Okay. That’s nice. I guess._ ”

You rub your fingers with the grain of the stick, wondering if that’s their version of a “thank you.” It’s considerate enough, and it’s probably the closest you’re going to get. “ _Well, I guess I should—”_

“ _Wait, wait. What’s—what’s_ your _name?_ ”

“ _Frisk_ ,” you respond, and you start to wonder if the comfort that settles in your chest at the word is _yours_ or _theirs_.

 

* * *

 

You wouldn’t call Chara your friend. Not yet. Not when they call you a crybaby for running away from monsters and not when they suggest terrorizing Whisums and _certainly_ not when they threaten a Froggit that doesn’t even understand them. But you think that maybe they’re being a little nicer, when it counts—when you finally reach Toriel’s home, and you look in the mirror, they give you a little nudge.

 _“It’s you!”_ they say, sounding fascinated. You realize with a start that they hadn’t really known what’d you looked like until now—but. It’s unsettling. It’s odd to only see one person in the mirror staring back at you—a person that you find difficulty in recognizing. You tap your fingernail against the glass, tilting your head.

 _“I’m—I’m not_ physically _with you, Frisk. That’s a dumb question, of course I won’t show up in the mirror. That’s_ your _face, not mine. That’s not my face, okay?”_

Still, you think, they _are_ with you. It’s nice—nicer than you’d thought it would be, anyway, and you hold your own hand when you follow Toriel downstairs, and when you walk out of the Ruins you can embrace the now-comforting feeling of not being alone.

(Chara suggests ripping the yellow petals off of Flowey. You’re inclined to agree, but you swear that you wouldn’t touch the plant in a million years, and for the first time you feel like they’re laughing _with_ you instead of _at_ you. That’s nice, too, and walking into the snow isn’t so bad when you’ve got someone telling bad puns about ice the whole time.)

And—it’s _good_ , the entire situation, and you’re undeniably pleased with the unspoken arrangement that you and Chara have. They promise to speak for you on the phone, and give you suggestions on how to ACT with monsters, and help you dodge attacks or do puzzles when you’re too tired. You teach them a little sign language, but it’s difficult when you have to take turns with the same hand, so you let them taste Nice Cream and feel the snow between your fingers and rub their hands over the soft wool of the sweater Toriel made you and—they seem to like this the best—inhale the scents of the underground through your nose.

You’re more similar than you thought, too: you both shriek with horror when you steal Ice Cap’s hat and accidentally turn it into a block of ice, and you both hoard food even when you really don’t need to, and you both giggle at Papyrus’ and Sans’ puns like they’re the funniest thing you’ve heard in a hundred years.

You have slightly different ways of dealing with monsters, though.

 _“Add those googly eyes that you found on the ground earlier,”_ Chara says eagerly, peering at Gyftrot through your eyes. To your horror—and Chara’s complete delight—the monster does not at all seem pleased with you.

When you wonder if you two could add anything else to it’s body (which is now a conglomeration of a candy cane; a small, confused dog; a photo of Snowdrake and his parent; a box of which Chara disdainfully labels _“non-dog-related raisins”_ ; and, of course, the googly eyes), Chara starts laughing again. _“You can’t improve upon perfection,”_ they say, and they sound so ridiculously proud that you let out a small laugh too.

“ _We should probably remove the decorations. That might make him feel better,”_ you suggest, wincing when you get smacked by one of Gyftrot’s snowflake attacks.

( _“You’re horrible at dodging these,”_ they note, but they show no inclination to help you. You’re not _too_ worried—your health is still okay, you think, they’d probably tell you if you were about to die—but it’s undeniably irritating of them.)

“ _What if we gave him a gift? That might make him like us more,”_ you suggest.

“ _He’s probably too suspicious to accept it right now. Try removing all the decorations first.”_

Removing the decorations makes Gyftrot nice, and giving him 35G as a gift makes him nicer, and you could smack Chara when they suggest decorating him again ( _“Chara, we just gained his trust!” “Yeah, that’s why it’s_ funny _!”_ ). You try to give Gyftrot more gold to try and make up for their suggestions, but Chara stops you, red irritation filtering through your thoughts. _“Hey, now,”_ they protest, shoving your hands back into your pockets. _“You aren’t made of money.”_

You try not to feel guilty. You SPARE Gyftrot and trudge on.

 

* * *

 

“ _How do you know all of these things?”_ you ask Chara suddenly, as they debate the pros and cons of spending 30G on a pair of Cloudy Glasses (pros being: fairly cheap, makes you invincible after getting hit for a longer amount of time; cons being: –2 Defense, makes you look like a giant nerd. You neglect to mention to Chara that you think the “nerd look” would suit them perfectly.) “ _You can tell me the stats of any monster we encounter, and you know all about the defensive qualities of a bandanna with muscles drawn on it, and you haven’t seem surprised by anything we’ve encountered.”_

 _“That’s not true,”_ Chara bristles, sounding almost offended. _“I didn’t know that Toriel had moved to the Ruins, and I didn’t know that a monster like Flowey existed. And I don’t_ always _know how to help you SPARE the monsters._ ”

“ _You… you sound like… like you knew Toriel. Before me,”_ you say, hesitantly. “ _Did… did you used to live here?”_

Chara is silent for a long, long time.

You stare at the Cloudy Glasses in your hands. They’re slightly worn—Chara had seemed a tad displeased with this—but you don’t think you would mind wearing them, except that you’re can’t decide if they would help you see better or decrease your already-questionable vision.

Another moment of silence passes, and this is when you begin to feel unsettled. Had Chara left? _Could_ they leave you, just like that? Had they actually been staying in your mind of their own free will, this whole time? And if they were gone—then—then you’d gone and messed up everything again, hadn’t you, because you just _had_ to go and poison everything that you touch—and you feel so humiliated and alone and you don’t know if you could face the rest of your journey without them, and—

 _“Don’t be so dramatic, Frisk,”_ they sigh, exasperated, and you’re flooded with relief, making them sigh again. _“It doesn’t matter where I came from, okay? I—I just—just let me help you get home. Let me do something nice, just_ one _time.”_

 _“You’ve been nice this entire time,”_ you think to them, but the words feel weak. They laugh, sounding bitter.

_“Don’t lie to me, Frisk. You’re horrible at it, just like—like—”_

For a moment, you think you smell something… something like flowers.

_“...Well. We should buy the glasses and get out of here. Gerson’s right—Undyne’s looking for us. You don’t want her to spear us in half, do you?”_

You grimace, paying the old turtle-like monster and shoving the glasses onto your face. You still can’t decide whether or not they help you see better. “ _Please don’t. We’ve gotten close enough to death plenty of times. I’d—I’d rather not die.”_

 _“I wouldn’t recommend it,”_ Chara agrees, and this time it’s _you_ that doesn’t say anything.

 

* * *

 

When you fought Toriel, she saw your low health and the scrapes and burns on your arms and legs and the tears blurring your vision and her attacks stopped swerving towards you.

When you fought Papyrus, he stopped the fight—mid-attack, sometimes!—when your bruised body could barely take any more and he scooped you up and placed you gently in his shed. His confidence grew when Chara insulted him and actually got _flustered_ when the two of you flirted with him, and the date afterwards—

Well. You’ve never been so happy to be rejected in your whole life.

But the longer you fight Undyne, the more she attacks with everything she’s got. It dawns on you—on _both of you_ —that she’s fighting for the entire Underground’s sake. That if you survive this encounter, somehow, then everything they’ve worked for—

You’ve distracted yourself. Chara yells—or maybe, you do?—and a spear pierces through your body and everything is bright red and bloody and Undyne stands over you, looking almost horrified, maybe she didn’t know that there would be this much blood, that it would be this messy, and you almost want to apologize for being such a disappointment, but when you cough there’s only red, red, r e d . . .

 

( **“You cannot give up just yet…”**

**“Chara! Stay determined…”)**

 

You feel as if you’re being tossed through a load of laundry, except a million times worse—surrounded by darkness and bright red pain instead of lemon detergent and soft fabrics—and then you’re back at your SAVE point, kneeling on the ground, emptying the contents of your stomach onto the swampy grass.

Chara is silent.

 _“Yeah,”_ they whisper after a moment. _“You never really forget what it feels like to die.”_

You’d never— _never_ died before this point. How could you, with Chara reminding you to eat when your health got low and helping you run away when you didn’t have enough time to figure out how to SPARE monsters and the SAVE points filling you up with so much strength you forgot that—that dying was even possible?

You don’t even know what to say. You don’t even know what you’re supposed to do, except curl up underneath the yellow light and try to forget all of the redness that came with Undyne’s bright blue spear sticking out of your stomach, and—

_“You heard him, didn’t you, Frisk?”_

You want to laugh, and laugh, and laugh—but—but it’s not funny.

_“Frisk. Get up. We—we have to stay determined. We’ll get past her, I swear, I—no, don’t do that, you—you baby! It’ll pass—the pain’s almost all gone now, see? Come on. Now we know what’s coming, and we can get even farther in the fight.”_

You pull yourself up. “ _I won’t kill her.”_

_“I never said that you had to.”_

 

* * *

 

 _“Tea—blatantly correct choice,”_ Chara sniffs indignantly, and you hold your hands over your mouth so that Undyne can’t see you giggling. You don’t want her to get any more angry at you than she already is.

 _“I like hot chocolate, though,”_ you hum, swinging the spear to point at the blue tin (which Chara insists is green for some reason—but you’re not colorblind, so maybe they are, somehow? It hurts your head thinking about how they could see it as a different color through the same pair of eyes). You tug on the spear again and it points at the soda—you wrinkle your nose at its color.

 _“Soda—sickly yellow liquid,”_ Chara agrees.

Undyne chimes in, seeing the look on your face. “Even though you pointed to it, you don’t like happy.” She pauses for a moment, and Chara takes this opportunity to let every ounce of their disdain for soda seep through. Undyne barks out a laugh. “Heh, that’s fine! I think soda’s gross, too! It rots your teeth… It rots your mind…” She takes on a vicious look. “IT ROTS YOUR FIGHTING SPIRIT!”

 _“Is that why you don’t like soda?”_ you ask Chara.

 _“I just think it tastes gross,”_ Chara admits. _“But I like Undyne’s reasons, too. Hey, I wonder what would happen if you pointed the spear towards the sword?”_

You swing the spear around towards it and look over at Undyne.

“Believe me, I would _gladly_ give you your fill of swords.” She grimaces, her right eye twitching slightly, before remembering the situation at hand—her face splits into a big grin, but her eye won’t stop twitching. “If you weren’t my beloved houseguest!”

 _“Oh, thank god,”_ Chara sighs. _“I was a little scared she would think that humans_ actually _ate swords.”_

 _“Anyway. Hot chocolate, or tea?”_ You muse, resting your chin in your hand and letting the spear swing back towards the definitely-not-green cylinder.

Chara sighs loudly. _“You already know that tea is the right choice, Frisk.”_

“Oh, you want some hot chocolate?” Undyne asks, starting towards the counter before stopping dead in her tracks. “Wait, wait, I just remembered. That container’s empty. I stopped getting it because it was always a hassle…” she grins. “ASGORE kept getting marshmallows stuck in his beard.”

Chara snorts loudly, and you smile uneasily—as you always do when Asgore is mentioned. You can’t figure out why Chara thinks it’s so funny.

 _“Tea it is,”_ you agree, swinging the spear towards it. _“I’ll let you drink it. Tea’s nice enough, but I like sweet things better! Like hot chocolate! And bisicles!”_

Chara lets you have the first sip, insisting that you have to try it, but you almost burn your tongue and decide, no, it’s not really worth it. _“It’s pretty good, you have to acknowledge that,”_ they say, and you do the mental approximation of a shrug and take a backseat. Chara never complains, but you know that they like being in control, and you can’t really blame them.

“It’s pretty good, right?” Undyne says, with a strained smile.

 _“I told you,”_ Chara says, smug.

“Nothing but the best for my ABSOLUTELY PRECIOUS FRIEND!” Undyne shrieks, and you wish Chara had the good sense to cover your ears. Unfortunately for you both, they ignore your advice.

“Hey…” Undyne begins again, looking more serious. “You know… It’s kind of strange you chose _that_ tea. Golden flower tea… That’s Asgore’s favorite kind.”

You think Chara might be smiling, just a little, like… like they have a secret. Their left hand is resting on the table—unlike you, they’re right handed, and they refuse to obey your body’s obvious preference. When they set down the fish-shaped mug, you think you see your hands trembling, but they fold them in their lap so quickly that you can’t tell.

“Actually, now that I think about it… You kind of remind me of him.”

Their—your!—hands are definitely shaking. You’re ready to forcibly push Chara back out, if needed, but Undyne starts yelling again:

“You’re both TOTAL weenies!!!”

Chara stares at her.

“...sort of.”

Undyne sighs, and her face falls back into seriousness again. Chara doesn’t say anything—how could they, when they’re pretending to be you?

“Y’know, I was a pretty hotheaded kid.”

 _“I know a kid like that, too,”_ you say to Chara, hoping to at the very least make them smile. They do, but it’s… kind of sour, you think. It’s hard to tell.

“Once, to prove I was the strongest, I tried to fight Asgore… Emphasis on _tried._ I couldn’t land a single blow on him! And worse, the whole time, he refused to fight back! I was so humiliated… Afterwards, he apologized and said something goofy: ‘Excuse me, do you want to know how to beat me?’ I said yes, and from then on, he trained me.”

Undyne sighs, resting her chin in her hands. “One day, during practice, I finally knocked him down. I felt…” she looked down. “Bad. But he was beaming… I had never seen someone more proud to get their butt kicked!”

“Anyway, long story short, he kept training me… And now I’m the head of the Royal Guard! So _I’m_ the one that gets to train dorks to fight!”

She grins at you expectantly, but it’s—it’s not you. It’s still just Chara, who tilts their head back at her.

“...like, uh, Papyrus. But, um, to be honest…I’m don’t know if...I can ever let Papyrus into the Royal Guard.”

 _“Papyrus is too nice,”_ Chara agrees inwardly, and you resist the urge to force them out as punishment.  _“You say that like it’s a bad thing!”_ you argue back.

“Don’t tell him I said that!” Undyne says, looking alarmed at your—Chara’s—conflicted expression. “He’s just… well… I mean, it’s not that he’s weak. He’s actually pretty freaking tough!”

 _“See?”_ you point out, letting your smug satisfaction leak into Chara, who is obviously not happy with that. _“C’mon, Chara, don’t you remember our fight with him? He beat us twice before we could manage to dodge all his attacks!”_

Undyne continues, oblivious to your internal conversation. “It’s just that… He’s… He’s too innocent and nice!!!”

 _“SEE?!?!?”_ Chara basically shrieks at you, your emotions clashing for a single solitary moment before Undyne continues, breaking off both of you.

“I mean, look, he was _supposed_ to capture you… And he ended up being _friends_ with you instead! I could _never_ send him into battle! He’d get ripped into little smiling shreds. That’s part of why… I started teaching him how to cook, you know? So, um, maybe he can do something else with his life.”

She blinks once, twice, and stares at you—at Chara—recognizing Chara’s empty teacup. “Oh, sorry, I was talking for so long… You’re out of tea, aren’t you? I’ll get you some more.”

Undyne is only halfway to the counter when she turns back to you two, her eyes wide with realization. “Papyrus… his cooking lesson…”

She starts shrieking again, much to Chara’s utter enjoyment and your apprehension: “HE WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE THAT RIGHT NOW!!! And if HE’s not here to have it… YOU’LL HAVE TO HAVE IT FOR HIM!!!”

And then she’s yelling even louder—it reminds you a lot of the battle with her (was that only a few hours ago?) except that Undyne seems a lot more passionate about cooking than she does about killing humans.

 _“Frisk,”_ Chara says, sounding uneasy. _“If you want to—I think you could handle things with Undyne better, I’ll just mess up whatever this is—”_

 _“No, do it,”_ you say eagerly. _“I want you to have to same friends as me. They deserve to get to know you too, even if it’s—even if you’re pretending to be Frisk! I want you to!”_

And so after Chara viciously attacks the tomatoes with everything they have—after they throw the store-brand noodles into the pot—after Undyne destroys her pot stirring noodles with a spear—after the two set Undyne’s house on fire—after Chara uses your wimpy arms to attack Undyne—after you think you can finally say that you and Undyne are _friends_ —Chara gives you your body back.

You feel like a stranger wearing someone else’s skin all the way to the end of Hotland.

 

* * *

 

Asgore’s home is full of golden flowers.

And you… you are full of someone else.

 _“What a comfortable bed,”_ Chara says wearily. _“If you laid down here… you might not ever get back up.”_

You lick your lips. “Chara,” you whisper, barely audible.

_“Don’t waste your voice on me, Frisk. Out of all of the people you’ve met… out of all of the friends that you’ve made… I’m the one least worth it.”_

“Chara, how can you even say that?”

_“You’ll find out one day, Frisk. Soon. I know you will.”_

 

You look in the mirror. You are an echo of yourself. You cannot recognize your own face any better than you could back then.

Chara had been so fascinated when they'd first seen you. A human who worked to grant mercy, regardless of first impulses—a human who, maybe, didn’t let themself be so horribly destructive and murderous—a human who didn’t want to inflict pain—that was something Chara had never believed existed.

“And what am I now?” you whisper.

They speak through your mouth, letting the words ring in your ears.

“Despite everything,” Chara says, looking at you through the mirror—their eyes in your face—their words in your mouth. “It’s still you.”

 

A Froggit peers at you out of the dark.

“A long time ago, a human fell into the ruins.”

And then.

And then.

…

You are told a story.

 

You hold hands as you leave.

Nothing has ever felt more right.


End file.
